The Distant Metropolis
The glass was cold under my fingertips, a sliver of obsidian that had once belonged to a window in a house that no longer existed, and I held it up to the gray light of the corridor, turning it slowly as if it were a coin I was trying to make shine, while the sound of the rain lashed against the thick panes of the apartment like a thousand small, angry fists demanding entry. "You keep it, don't...
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